


Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

by Werelibrarian



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Haberdashery porn, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Season/Series 01, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-13 12:18:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7976575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Werelibrarian/pseuds/Werelibrarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I should probably tell you I’m going to sniff anything you show me."</p><p>The shopkeeper’s smile actually grows. "How interesting. Can you tell me what you’re sniffing for?"</p><p>Foggy already likes this guy, who looks to be about a hundred and ten but stands straight as a flagpole, but he's not about to admit that he's trying to make himself pretty for a blind man with four super-human senses, so he just smiles.</p><p>"Complexity."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They're still working on it, but their connection gets stronger every day, growing its roots back into the ground where they used to be--where they're supposed to be. They have gentle, easy, friend-dates, which mostly consist of eating their way through the best greasy spoons from Harlem to Wall Street and then sitting back with beers and play-by-play recordings from the golden age of baseball.

Foggy tries to keep it light-hearted and like before. Tries to show Matt that their friendship is strong enough and _spacious_ enough for the third person that joined it, this person who could take Matt away from him someday. But Matt has other plans, it seems.

Matt describes all the things he can hear through the windows when they ride the cross-town bus. Some are good things. Parents blowing raspberries on the tummies of giggling babies. Teenagers coming back from the mailbox with the acceptance letters they've been waiting for. People telling each other, "look, I'm just going to come out and say it. I love you, ok? I love you."

Some things make him go utterly stiff and still, go silent for blocks. Every time, Foggy offers to pull the cord and stop the bus, but Matt has only accepted twice.

"Does it get difficult, hearing bad things happen?" Foggy asks, when, after minutes of tense silence, Matt gripped his arm and begged Foggy to talk.

"Yes," Matt says, "sometimes it's bad."

"Other times?"

"Other times it's unbearable." His voice is like a depth charge.

Foggy puts his arm around Matt's shoulders and pulls him in. He chatters on gamely about how amazing it would have been to be there when the Giants won the pennant, and maybe they should listen to the 69 Mets next.

"This helps," mumbles Matt, his head on Foggy's shoulder, bumping gently as the bus trundles over uneven roads.

"The Mets?"

"Listening to you. Talking. I know you hate it, but I can hear you breathing. Your heart. Your smell. It helps."

Foggy looks out the window and tries to think of a response. He doesn't love it, the fact that he's naked all the time for Matt.

"If I'd known about that, I would have been a lot more careful. Done my laundry a bit more, you know?"

Matt smiles, a bit tiredly. "Everyone smells a little bit."

"But isn't it gross?"

"Sometimes. Is it gross when you see people in clothing that's less than perfectly clean?

Foggy looks around the bus, full of New Yorkers in glorious evening rush-hour dishevelment. "Sometimes, but usually not."

"It's like that, I guess. You see dirt, I smell dirt. It's still just dirt."

Matt, Foggy knows, is on a truth crusade, telling Foggy all the things he'd kept secret, making his own attempt at putting the avocado back together. Foggy knows this because Matt stands on the ledge of each disclosure like a swimmer on a starting block, taking a deep breath before plunging in.

"What's the nicest thing you've ever smelled?"

Matt screws up his face. "I don't know."

"Well, think about it," Foggy says, as he pulls the cord.

Matt is thoughtfully quiet as they wander around Chinatown and Foggy mutters angrily at Google maps.

"That roast duck smells pretty good," Matt says. Foggy looks around. They're next to a shoe store and a pharmacy, both with darkened windows. "Two blocks that way." Matt points.

"Any chance you can sniff out the name of the restaurant?" Foggy asks. Matt harrumphs.

"No, but the owner is pregnant." Foggy goes quiet. "Kidding. I can't tell that from this distance."

"You give me acid reflux," Foggy grouses, tucking Matt's hand into the hollow of his elbow.

***

"Orchids," Foggy suggests, his mouth full of lemongrass chicken. Another Friday, another trash-heap of a restaurant serving criminally delicious food. Only in New York. "Napoleon brandy."

Matt stuffs rice noodles in his mouth and shrugs.

"A field of lavender."

"Yes, Foggy, my favourite smell is one of Hell's Kitchen's many lavender fields."

"Frying onions?"

"That's everywhere, every day."

"Fresh bread."

"Sure, why not."

"A woman's neck," Foggy tries, just to be a shit.

Matt doesn't miss a beat. "Not just her neck," he says, smirking.

"I'm rolling my eyes and advertising for a new best friend on Craigslist."

"Good luck to the new guy. The benefits of this job are terrible."

"Well, if you had just told me you had expectations of being my friend with _benefits_ this would have all been cleared up a lot earlier," Foggy says sadly. Matt laughs and loses half a cup of tea down his chin, or maybe he just pretends to.

***

"There's the wind-up," announces Foggy, cradling a crumpled up ball of paper against his chest. Matt settles an empty beer bottle over his shoulder like a bat. "And there's the pitch!"

He lobs the ball at Matt, who swings with such appalling form that it's difficult to believe that he's a master of multiple forms of martial arts.

"Swing and a miss," Matt yells into his cupped hand, making a broadcaster-like reverb, "who put this kid on the plate, I'm asking you, folks."

They collapse on the sofa, full of experimental pizza (kelp and soft-shell crab, possibly?) and experimental microbrew.

"Jesus maestro, what's in these?" Foggy squints at the beer label when Matt hands it over. "I swear we've only had two."

"I'm having flashbacks to that time we partied with those girls from the chemistry department," says Matt, trying to rub his eye and missing.

"Oh god, the bathtub tequila," moans Foggy.

Matt tips his head back on the sofa, looking stewed and content, and Foggy has always liked the look of him when he gets this way. He watches as Matt strokes his own arm, his broken-and-reset fingers flickering over the pale skin and the dark hair on his forearm. He drags his nails on the down-stroke, and it leaves faint pink lines.

Foggy's seen this before, the way Matt goes deep into his body when he's the right kind of drunk.

On a whim, he totters to the bedroom and picks up a pillow. He lifts it to his nose, then changes the cover for a fresh one--one of the fancy, silky ones he bought when he was intrigued by Matt's devotion to high thread count bed linen. When he drops it in Matt's lap, his arms and legs wrap around it like a koala and he hums happily.

"This is nice," Matt says, his face buried in the pillow.

"It's clean, I promise. Well, clean to non-superhero standards."

"I know. But it still smells like you."

Foggy's shoulder slump. "Still think having your nose cranked up to eleven would suck, and I'm not sure why you pretend it doesn't."

"It does suck. Frequently. Garbage cans. Boiling tar. Flower shops. God, even the Hudson River on a hot day."

"So why don't you move out to Pennsylvania? Fresh air and spring water and waving wheat or something."

"Cows."

Foggy pushes at Matt's shoulder, and he topples into Foggy's lap, giggling squeakily. "I'm not seriously suggesting you get out of New York. For one thing I'm not sure the Amish would get your whole vigilante thing. I just wish I could make the world less stinky for you."

"There are a lot of nice things out there, you know. And I can smell them, and taste them, and hear them, and feel them," he squishes the pillow, "a lot better than everyone else. Not just for my thing," he wriggles his fingers, which Foggy guesses means being a night-stalking, skull-crushing, one man mass spectrometer, "but for normal things too."

"Like what?" Foggy scratches Matt's scalp, and a groan makes it halfway up his throat before he traps it behind his teeth.

"Silk sheets," Matt sighs, melting a little, "dark chocolate. Ripe strawberries. Honey still in the comb."

"If I didn't know you better, I'd be calling you a bougie little hedonist right now."

"It's not because they're expensive, you jerk," Matt tries to paw at Foggy's face, "it's because they're complex."

"Can I point out that all those things are also a little bit sexy?" Foggy squeezes the back of Matt's neck and, if possible, Matt goes even more gooey. One hand flops out, and Foggy finds himself a bit entranced by the curl of his fingers.

"I'm not taking responsibility for your filthy mind," says Matt. He sounds like he might be drooling, "but yeah, the human body is the most complex thing out there."

Foggy's eyebrows raise. There's a question simmering gently in his brain, but he can't really afford to let it bubble to the surface. What must sex be like for Matt?"

He peers at the clock on the dvd player. "Ugh, we should call it a night. Karen'll put something in our coffee--probably a complete lack of coffee--if we show up late."

Matt doesn't move, but he's rubbing his fingers over the thick cottony weave of the pillow, so he's not completely out cold yet.

"Matt, do you want to stay here or you want me to put you on a hand cart and take you home?"

"Here, please." He rolls onto his back and beams up at Foggy, looking drowsy but not really drunk anymore. "Thanks."

Foggy beds Matt down on the sofa as quickly as he can, and disappears behind his own bedroom door. He's been on the receiving end of a lot of Matt's smiles, and each new one is his favourite one and the one that could push him past the point of his resolve.

Foggy's adored Matt for years, amorphously, the way he imagines people in paintings love. It never really got in the way of the friendship, which was grimy and imperfect, but grounded. Human.

But finding out about the whole Daredevil thing broke his heart. Not because he thought Matt was too good--just too sweet and good--for the insane Batman bullshit he spouted about saving the city. Not because it turned out that Foggy's goofy, finicky, tail-chasing teddy-bear of a best friend was so much more brutal in body and spirit than Foggy could ever have imagined or wished. Not even because of the lies, though that was a huge part of it. It took him days to figure it out, but when he did, well.

Matt lived, fundamentally, somewhere where Foggy couldn't go. In the grand scheme of things, Matt didn't live with Foggy in the world of the legal system, and rent for the office, and Josie's on Fridays. He could only visit. It was like the old saying of the fish who fell in love with a bird, and where would they make their home?

Foggy hadn't known he wanted to make his home with Matt.

In the worst moments of their fight, that was what made Foggy almost sick with grief. When he realized they lived in two separate worlds, and no amount of friendship, or understanding, or could-have-been romance, was going to keep those two worlds together.

But every day that Matt's safe helps Foggy forget the fact a little more, and a lifetime of making Matt's visits into the daylight world as comfortable and as loving as possible? That's not so bad. People have settled for less.

He pounds his one pillow into shape--he let Matt keep the fluffy one--and tries to shove it all into the back of his mind. "I should be much better at this," he mumbles to himself, then listens, hand over mouth, to hear if his words have woken Matt. There's only the sound of Matt snuffling into the pillow.


	2. Chapter 2

At six o'clock the next morning, Matt tumbles into Foggy's bed.

"Jesus Christ!" Foggy yelps, startled awake by the bounce, "Oh, what the hell, it's just you."

"Who else is visiting your bed?" Matt asks.

"Wouldn't you like to--fuck it. No one." It's too early for banter.

"I have made breakfast. Now I need a nap," Matt yawns.

"No, you haven't."

"Have so."

"There's no coffee, so I'm not getting out of bed."

"You moved your beans."

"Cupboard over the stove, next to the Woo-woo sauce."

"The what?"

"Hot sauce. Nearly burned my jaw off, you don't get to play with it."

"Not the boss of me," Matt scoffs, as he rolls back up to standing, "come on, we need to swing past mine on the way to work."

An indignant " _we_?" is on the tip of Foggy's tongue, but it dies an ignoble death when he sees Matt padding out of his bedroom wearing something Foggy remembers fondly from their dorm at Columbia.

Matt's a boxers man; they both are, although Matt's are usually of a higher quality. But when he was fixing to end the night with his clothes strewn all over someone else's floor, the little black boxer-briefs came out. Foggy saw that style more than a few times when Matt was dressing for a date, though why he's got them on now Foggy can't guess.

They're low in the waist and short in the leg, and snug across the front, and they do something to his ass that make it impossible to tear your eyes away. Foggy knew it was a bit pervy of him but it wasn't like Matt could tell he looked.

Foggy sits bolt upright in bed.

Matt could tell. He could always tell.

The whir of the coffee grinder rattles Foggy's panic, and he's got about thirty seconds max to quietly freak out before Matt catches on.

Nope, he's going to need more time than that.

"Matt," he calls.

"Yeah?" Matt calls back from the kitchen.

"Um, you eat, I'm going to take a shower."

"Okay."

Standing under the spray, he calms down a little. Matt can hear my heart, and probably how well I'm digesting dinner, Foggy thinks, and that's _way_ more invasive. But then again, this is not the creepy olympics and Foggy should probably just watch where his eyes are going from now on.

He sniffs his shampoo while he's washing his hair. To him, it doesn't smell like anything, but god knows what Matt picks up, even from products marked "unscented".

When Foggy walks out of the bedroom he finds a terrible sight.

Matt's half fallen back asleep, sprawled out on Foggy's sofa with a mug of coffee cupped against his ridiculous abs. Foggy can't sculpt, can't paint, can just about manage a stick figure, but his hands itch to capture every detail--the way Matt's toes point, the relaxed slope of his shoulders, the line of muscle on the inside of his thigh.

He's still wearing the boxer-briefs. And a tiny smile.

Foggy lets himself stare for a count of five, then turns to put more bread in the toaster. The click of the lever wakes Matt up.

"Time is it?"

"Almost six twenty."

Matt tips back the rest of the coffee while stretching obscenely. "Ok, where are my pants?"

Foggy eats breakfast in a slight daze, his eyes fixed firmly on the table-top, while Matt walks around in his underwear until he finds his trousers, then with just those on until Foggy literally has his bag strap on his shoulder and keys in his hands.

"It might not be overcoat weather but it's definitely shirt weather, Matthew," he says, pointedly.

"It smells like last night's pizza," Matt complains, buttoning two ( _two!)_ buttons and leaving the rest. With his jacket slung over his arm and his hair styled by tornado, he could be doing a walk of shame. He's even got his tie stuffed into his back pocket.

Foggy tries to keep up his end of the conversation on the way to Matt's apartment, but he mostly chews his lip and tries not to look down Matt's open shirt.

***

"On a scale of one to ten, how bad is cologne?" Foggy asks over dinner. It's Greek food this week, and Foggy hoped that his salad and grape-leaf dolmades would give Matt a little bubble of cool vegetable smells, a respite from the restaurant's cloud of meat. Unheeding of Foggy's efforts, Matt orders an enormous lamb shank dish, and seems to be enjoying it almost obnoxiously as Foggy chases olives around his plate.

Matt wipes shiny grease from his lips and considers the question. "Depends on the cologne. Some are just awful--like I can't understand why anyone thinks that's a good way to smell. Most are ok, but practically everyone wears too much."

"Same for perfumes?"

"Mostly. I knew someone who wore this amazing perfume and--" Matt's face goes a little bit lost.

"Elektra?" Foggy asks, softly.

Matt nods. "I've never smelled it since, which I guess I should be thankful for. But it was like a wave that rolled over me whenever she turned her head. Like carnations and cigarettes and I don't know--burning spotlights," he trails off, probably sensing Foggy's confusion. "I know, that's just what it made me think of."

"Well, you just tell me if you smell it again, and I'll bring out the Elektra-repellent," Foggy offers.

"What would that be?"

"Spray cheese and student debt. That'll send her running."

Matt grins.

***

Foggy sits in an empty office and tries not to combust. Matt's taken Karen out to talk a witness into taking the stand, so Foggy has all the space to freak out.

It wasn't his fault. He hadn't meant to do it.

But now he knew, was he going to stop?

They had been in the conference room trying to coordinate a plea bargain for a neighbourhood girl named Hannah, Foggy on his cell phone to the District Attorney's office and Karen on the office line with the co-defendant's counsel. Matt had parked himself between them with his hands folded and fed them both information in a low murmur.

Foggy saw the moment the co-defendant's lawyer tried to save face by saying it was Karen's so-called disorganization that screwed his client out of a court date. She got up and paced, listening with a blank face to the sneering accusations that even Foggy, half a room away, could hear. Matt shot to his feet and held his hand out for the phone, his expression stony. She patted his arm, and without changing the polite lilt to her voice, told the lawyer exactly how much work she'd done on behalf of his office, and very sweetly, told him where to get off. Matt sat down again, looking supremely satisfied.

"She's better at the FOAD than you'll ever be," Foggy told Matt quietly, and that's when everything changed.

He'd been tugging at his hair while he'd been on the phone, and it was still in disarray. When he leaned down to whisper in Matt's ear, an errant strand of it brushed Matt's cheek.

Matt's eyelids fluttered, and he gasped Foggy's name.

Foggy reared back like Matt had hissed at him, but Matt had steadied him with a hand on his thigh ( _on his thigh!_ ) and whispered, "sorry, just surprised me."

"Won't happen again," Foggy croaked, righting himself.

"I wouldn't mind if it did," Matt said, going slightly pink, "It's one of the nice things."

"Yes, I understand it's been a trying case, and I appreciate the apology. Thank you. Good day," Karen said. She hung up and squinted at the two of them, nose to nose and blushing. "Did I miss something?"

Now, fingers clenched around his coffee mug, Foggy racks up the arguments in his head.

Argument: Matt maybe ~~loves~~ ~~wants~~ ~~likes~~ fuck it, Matt is maybe making _overtures_.

  * Deployment of the black briefs of ill-intent
  * More touching than usual
  * Unexpected candor



Counter-argument: Foggy's seeing things.

  * Matt's always been an exhibitionist with affectionate tendencies when he's happy.
  * Matt probably never wanted to lie about his abilities, and maybe he's happy now that he doesn't have to with Foggy.
  * Foggy has soft hair. So what if Matt liked the feel of it. He liked the pillow too.
  * They divide baseball players into leagues for a reason.



Foggy's pinching the bridge of his nose by the time he's done thinking about it. Nice tailspin, Nelson. And could you think a little more poorly of Matt's intentions? He sighs, counts his piles of paper, rolls up his sleeves, and dives back into work.

"We're back," Karen calls from the front area, and Foggy's startled to see that two hours have passed.

"Any joy?" Foggy asks, leaning out of his office. Once Hannah's plea bargain meeting got sorted, they had all three of them turned their attentions to their other client, and having that client's boss on the stand would go a long way towards arguing good character.

"Heaps of joy," Karen says, hanging up her coat, "she agreed to testify."

"Karen had the manager eating out of her hand within minutes," Matt agrees, leaning his cane on the wall.

"Then what were you there for, actual-law-degree-holder?"

The corners of Matt's lips quirk. "Aesthetics?"

It's only Karen's quiet "ugh" that keeps the moment from stretching into something long and awkward. Foggy chuckles, "can't win trials on handsome, buddy."

Matt pouts a little, then squeezes Foggy on the shoulder before retreating into his office.

When he's safe behind his paper fort, Foggy scribbles on an index card and props it up in front of his computer.

"Seeing things," it reads, in thick black letters.

***

The sun makes a ninth-inning comeback in the early days of autumn, and by the time Foggy's done all the after-work errands he can't put off any longer and he's toeing his shoes off in this living room, he's sticky with sweat and clinging grime.

Soup cans and potatoes go rolling as he drops his grocery bag and opens all the windows. He feels caked in every sort of yuck that New York can offer up and he sheds his clothing in a trail to the shower, sure that he'll be sluicing grey water down the drain.

How can Matt bear days like this? It takes Foggy a handful of soap to dislodge the sensation of grit from under his arms, the creases of his thighs, from behind his knees--why isn't Matt scrubbing in the shower 24/7?

As noses go, Foggy's pretty sensitive. He's nowhere near Matt, but he's probably above average; he always knew what his grandmother's sauces needed for that extra kick, and he was shockingly adept at Bergdorf Goodman's perfume counter, if Marci's poleaxed expression was anything to go by.

So he doesn't need a super-sniffer to tell him that the world can be absolutely disgusting. Clothing comes out of the dryer smelling like baked plastic. Food comes out of the oven tasting of the water pipes. Greasy hair and dried urine and whatever that crap is that turns black under fingernails. When he lifts his sweat-dark shirt to his nose and inhales hard, it's not that bad. When he does the same to his trousers, he revises his opinion downwards. How is Matt not completely crazy from being surrounded by this--by this stench--every day of his life?

Still in a towel, he throws open his closet and sniffs the ostensibly clean clothing on the hangers. Frowns. Goes to the kitchen and scoops a small pile of coffee beans into a glass, blows his nose, and starts again.


	3. Chapter 3

Karen's eyes bug out when Foggy bustles into the office on Monday.

"Uh, have we changed the dress code?" she asks.

Matt pokes his head out, glee on his face. "What're you wearing?"

"Nothing," Foggy says, by which he means "nothing weird"--just gym-shorts and a t-shirt-- but Matt's face splits in a delighted grin and he approaches Foggy with his hands out, which--what?

"Hey, no grabbing," he says, fending off Matt's reach, "I'm just wearing gym stuff. I didn't want to gross up my suit on the walk over."

"Are you sure we haven't changed the dress code? Because I'm perfectly willing to work in yoga pants and Chucks," Karen says, and Foggy sighs a little at the thought of her long legs in black spandex.

"Only if I get to wear them too," he says, thinking they'll all go "eugh" at the thought of his wide ass in yoga pants and that'll be it. But Karen gives him a speculative once-over and Matt tilts his head and--ok, seriously, what?

"Eyes forward, Ms. Page," Foggy says, with great dignity, "and now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to the bathroom to change."

Over the weekend, he scrubbed one of his building's washers with baking soda and carbolic soap and re-washed nearly his entire wardrobe with a detergent that had max XP in strength and scentlessness. He had to go to Brooklyn to find it. Then he went up to the roof of his apartment building and hung up his laundry to dry in the breeze, high above the smoggy streets. With a shrug, he clipped his light grey suit on the line too, just to see if it would do anything.

Now, over the fake lemon of bathroom cleanser, he can still smell cool air in the fabric of his shirt, and his socks and underwear feel fluffier, like they're not matted down with dead skin and horrible body oils. He puts on his newest tie, the one that wasn't nearly crunchy with sweat at back of the neck, and his court shoes. A little pinching is preferable to whatever was ground into the tread of his everyday pair.

He settles his tie clip in the mirror, and the man who looks back at him stands a little straighter than normal.

"I've changed my mind," Karen announces when he returns, "let's keep the dress code, because I would definitely miss this." Her gesture encompasses Foggy's whole body, and he rolls his eyes.

"Work to do," he sings.

"I thought you couldn't win trials on handsome," Matt sasses, as he straightens Foggy's already-perfect collar and strokes his hand down Foggy's tie, rubbing the tie-clip with his thumb.

Foggy blushes and retreats behind his door with a grumble. The index card is still propped up on his keyboard. He leans back in his chair, thoughtfully turning his tie-clip this way and that, imagining he can feel the heat of Matt's fingers in the metal. He picks up the index card and flicks it into the garbage can.

***

Early autumn gives way to the proper, nut-pinchingly cold part of autumn, and Foggy sells his games console in order to go shopping. It's not a hard choice. He never uses it anyway; when he's not listening to an old baseball recording with Matt, he's doing his goddamn laundry.

It's not like he resents the effort. It's time consuming, but he enjoys the way his clothing smells windblown and clean, and he really likes the way that Matt covertly brushes his nose against Foggy's shoulder and smiles gently to himself.

"New detergent?" Matt asked, once.

"Is it? Maybe." Foggy said, non-committal.

"It's nice."

"Uh-huh."

Under the bright lights of the menswear department of Barney's, he feels supremely out of place. There are tables and racks of rich colours and sumptuous fabrics, easily smeared or ripped or just untidied by his clumsy hands.

"May I help you find something?" Foggy whirls around. There's an old man, impeccably dressed, standing behind him with a patient air.

"Um. I hope so. I'm looking to, uh. Update some things about my wardrobe." The man nods, as if to say, go on. "Gloves, a scarf, maybe shoes."

"I can definitely help with those items, Mr.?"

"Nelson. Call me Foggy."

"My name is Drummond."

"Mr. Drummond?"

"Just Drummond."

"Oh. Ok. I should probably tell you I'm going to sniff anything you show me."

The shopkeeper's smile actually grows. "How interesting. Can you tell me what you're sniffing for?"

Foggy already likes this guy, who looks to be about a hundred and ten but stands straight as a flagpole, but he's not about to admit that he's trying to make himself pretty for a blind man with four super-human senses, so he just smiles and says:

"Complexity."

Drummond nods, like he knows exactly what Foggy means.

***

Foggy comes away with exactly what he set out to buy--a pair of gloves, a scarf, and a pair of shoes. Plus a pair of trousers, and a new friend, it seems.

"It's been a pleasure serving you, Mr. Nelson. I'm not just saying that. You know how to test an old shopkeeper and I hope you'll come back again."

"Thanks, I'll try. And sorry for all the questions."

He sits on the subway and looks over his tools for getting Matt's attention. Drummond showed him mountains of scarves that were soft as clouds, that were cool and silky, that were crisp and robust, and Foggy rejected them all. This one starts cozy like wool, but crushes in the hand with a crunchiness of tweed, and leaves a bunny-tail sweep of angora, tingling on the skin. It's not just gorgeously textured, it's intriguing. He can't stop touching it, and he thinks Matt won't be able to keep his hands off it either.

He also bought a pair of brown oxfords that look plain but make his every step ring out like a thunderclap. When he and Matt were at Columbia, both of them developed a pavlovian response towards one of their professors who had the pounding stride of a Brazilian catwalk model. The aggressive tak tak tak of her shoes stomping down the hallway somehow found a receptor in the brain that was labelled "I'm a hunter and I'm coming to fucking eat you" and hammered a railroad spike into it.

He puts the shoes away and inhales in the leather scent of the gloves. These are his favourite. He imagines cradling Matt's face in his leather-clad palms as they kiss, Matt pressing his nose into the soft, rich aroma, Matt biting the buttery skin of the gloves between his teeth, tasting them, breathlessly begging Foggy to touch his body with them--

Foggy jerks guiltily, and looks around. Shit, he's missed his stop.

***

Matt sits in his office and tries not to combust. 

He can hear Foggy walking up the stairs, and the strike of his shoe against the ground is like a firecracker, a hammer on a nail, a blow to the head. It makes him feel, oddly, like prey; the stalking stride reminds him too much of the ticking of a big clock--time closing in, some _one_ closing in.

"Good morning, team! This just in, it's very cold out," Foggy calls merrily from the reception area, even though it's nearly noon. Karen, who smells like pen ink and printer toner and a little bit of frustration, just makes a grumpily appreciative noise when Foggy puts a pastry on her desk.

Matt hasn't heard the last five minutes of this transcript. He got distracted when he picked up familiar footsteps-- loud and stately-- from a block away, so he pops his earbud out when Foggy settles his weight on the edge of the desk.

"The good news is that the meeting with the DA's office went well, and Hannah's been pled down to community service instead of juvie. On my way back, I got a call from that neighbourhood centre that helps kids stay out of gangs, and they're going to drop in Hannah and her dad tonight. All in all, it's been a decent morning. Hey, are you ok?"

Matt hears the sound of his voice, the steady beat of his heart, but there's a swirl of distractingly unfamiliar scents perched on the corner of his desk--wool, leather, cinnamon, silk, pepper, winter air--and in the middle of it, Foggy.

"Yeah," he says, a little distantly, "I'm fine."

Foggy gets up and shuts the door. "Who was it this time? Ninjas? Samurai? Or is some other culture's improbably medieval fighting force descending on Hell's Kitchen? Welsh longbowmen? Norse berserkers?"

"What?" Matt shakes himself. "No, it's been quiet."

"Ok." Foggy sounds mistrustful, which sets Matt's teeth on edge, even if he sort of deserves it. "I'm going to call Claire tonight and check."

"Go ahead. I haven't seen her in a week."

Foggy settles back on the desk. His knee is centimetres from Matt's elbow. "Well, now I'm even more worried. If patrol's not the problem, what is it?"

"I'm ok, Foggy. Just a bit short on sleep and good company." He pats Foggy's knee, aiming for friendly, but between one moment and the next he finds his fingers have spread over Foggy's leg, savouring the prickly-silky weave of his trousers and the firm, generous thigh underneath.

"Been shopping?" Is that breathless squeak really him?

"Yeah, you like them? Wool and silk. Surprisingly warm, you know."

"That's good. Can't let you freeze."

"Matt."

"Mm?"

"Your hand is still on my leg."

"Yeah. Oh! Sorry." Matt clears his throat about seven times while Foggy chuckles.

"Feels good?"

Matt nods, dumbly. Listening to Foggy speak is like standing next to a radiator, waves of warmth and comfort.

"I'm glad. I like it when you get to touch one of your nice things."

The words are innocent but the tone--and Foggy's heartbeat--isn't. Matt feels ambushed, knocked flat by the maddening textures and sounds. Under it all is the scent of Foggy with his engine running hot, and all Matt manages is a creaky, "uh huh."

Foggy chuckles again, gives Matt's face a friendly pat ( _his face!_ ), and leaves.

***

"Hi there, Nelson and Murdock. I'm Nelson. He's Murdock. We're looking for some property planning applications that were filed here last year. Can you help us?"

The city clerk's voice is more bored than, really, Matt's ever heard come out of a human being. "Application number?"

"Uh, not sure. I've got the company name and the address of the proposed site, if that'll do?"

"Can't help you, then."

Matt's about to step in, see if he can't work a little magic on the man behind the counter. Sure, he does his best work with women, but those planning applications could be the key proving the innocence of one of their clients and he's willing to take one for the team.

"That's a shame. What should I call you, by the way?" Foggy asks.

"Dennis."

"Dennis, are you sure you can't just give me a little peek? I promise I'll be as quick and forgettable as a bad hook-up."

Matt rolls his eyes, but Dennis' metronome heart gives a thrilled little bump-bump.

"From the look of you, Mr. Nelson, I kinda doubt it."

Foggy laughs. "You caught me, but I was referring to file look-up skills, not…other skills."

Dennis titters, but it's a bass rumble emitted from a throat that's roughly level with Matt's eyebrows, and therefore only slightly more disturbing than the blatant invitation that drips from Foggy's words.

"And what if I wanted to hear about those other skills?"

"Then I would count myself a very lucky man. But the end of my day is shaping up to be pretty far off, especially if I have to find another way to get a look at that planning application."

"Alright, handsome, give me what you've got." Foggy rattles off the information and Dennis disappears into a room at the back of the office.

"You flirted with him," Matt accuses.

"Yep."

"I can't believe you."

"You do it all the time. Like. _All_ the time."

"I know, but."

"Guys too--don't think I haven't noticed."

"Ok, but."

"And do we need the planning application or don't we?"

"Yes, but."

"But?"

Matt twists his cane in his hands. There is entirely too much logic in this conversation and not nearly enough of him getting his way. "He's too tall for you!"

Foggy throws his head back and laughs. "You're probably right. But he is dang hot."

Matt presses his lips together. "Of course," he says stiffly, "feel free to hook-up with whoever you want."

"I cut my hair, could you tell?"

The non-sequitur makes Matt blink. "Uh. No. I couldn't. Is it short?"

"Touch it and find out." Matt folds up his cane, and reaches out a hesitant hand. His fingers ghost over the bristle of Foggy's sideburns, then sink into lustrous strands that catch on the cracks in his knuckles. Something, ticklish and crisp and completely confusing, brushes his wrist.

"Oh my god, what _is_ this?"

"New scarf."

"It feels like--I don't even know." The fabric seem to shift and change under his fingers, one second, cloud-like softness, then threads of silk, then plump wool and dense tweed.

"Yeah, isn't it neat?"

It's more than neat. It's a sinkhole of tactility, and Matt goes deeper and deeper until he can identify every single soft strand of hair, the complex web of fibres in the scarf. Even the sound of breathing fades away, but the heat of his body roars to life in under Matt's hands and he just lets everything--hair, fibres, heat, the ecstatic throb of Foggy's pulse--play over his skin.

He goes so deep he almost doesn't hear a file cabinet slam shut.

Foggy traps his wrists.

"He's coming back," Matt whispers.

"It's ok, just leave your hands there," Foggy says breathlessly.

Matt's fingers find flushed skin, and gently, so gently, he sweeps his thumbs over Foggy's cheek.

"Alright, handsome, here's what I got--oh." Now, Matt does jerk his hands away. Dennis snorts. "Yeah, yeah, message received. Here's your planning application. I even photocopied it for you." He dangles a page from two fingers, and Matt whisks it into his pocket.

"Thank you for your help," Matt says, and hauls Foggy out of there.

"Bye!" chirps Foggy, tripping along behind.


	4. Chapter 4

When autumn has fully turned to winter, Matt notices that Foggy's come into the office wearing cologne. Guerlain Vetiver, to be exact--notes of tobacco, green wood, and the barest hint of a river when it's churned up into rapids. Men at Columbia wore it. Men on the street wear it. It's as unremarkable and inoffensive as wet grass clinging to running shoes, and Matt forgets within seconds.

A few days later, Foggy smells of something that prods lemon, coriander, and vanilla directly into Matt's brain, and he has a suspicion he keeps pulling faces whenever Foggy comes near, because it disappears before lunch, replaced by the smell of hand soap.

Another few days, and it's black pepper with sandalwood. Another week, dusty cinnamon and jasmine. Foggy works his way through a parade of scents, from citrus-bright to powdery and soft. Dark as incense in a dungeon to fresh as a chemically recreated beach. Matt likes some and doesn't like others, but he doesn't say anything.

If he did though, he'd ask if Foggy applies his scents the way Elektra did: pulling out a single drop of liquid on a glass rod, tossing her hair out of the way, and letting the drop roll over the pulse on her neck. Matt would sit across the room and get aroused by the way the glow of her skin sent out ripples of scent that pulled at him and drew him back to her throbbing heartbeat.

The day Matt starts to pay real attention is the day that Foggy comes in wearing something he nicknames Leather Fetish. This one doesn't dissipate into a veil of nothing; it digs in its freaking heels and _stays_. Matt keeps to his side of the office, but the leathery, musky, cedary eau de toilette keeps turning his head.

By late afternoon, the scent boils itself down to a dark residue that makes Matt's head spin. It's still leather, but now it's leather warmed by flesh. It's pushing a leather jacket off of naked shoulders and smelling the sweat underneath. It's Matt tugging leather trousers down Foggy's gorgeous legs, and pressing his nose to the hot skin of his thighs.

Matt sits alone in his office, warm-faced and aching, but he still doesn't say anything.

Foggy wears Leather Fetish for a couple of weeks, and Matt's productivity plummets so hard it leaves a crater. Karen starts muttering darkly whenever he asks her to push back his deadlines.

"Congratulations, I'm reassigning these to you." Karen stalks into Foggy's office one day holding a good two inches of Matt's neglected files.

"Hey, I've already got nine inches of my own!" Foggy cries, pointing to the teetering stack of papers at his elbow.

Karen resolutely doesn't laugh, but Matt, from behind his own desk, _howls_.

"You're still in the doghouse, mister!" Karen yells. He gives an apologetic mumble, but settles back in his chair for some good old fashioned eavesdropping. Both office doors are open; they'll expect it.

"Fine," Foggy sighs, "just pile it on." Karen sets down the files and stands over him. He cranes his neck to look at her face. "Uh, yes?"

"Nothing."

"Ok. Still looming though."

"I'm deciding if I want to sit on your lap or lick your neck," Karen says pleasantly.

Matt sprays coffee all over the window.

"I'm going to need to do a little more soul-searching before I'm ok with either of those outcomes," Foggy says, faintly.

"That's a good boss," she says, patting the top of his head.

"I'm almost afraid to ask?"

"Just letting you know that this do-me-now cologne you've been wearing totally works, even if it's not aimed at the right person," Karen says, leaning heavily on the last words.

"I'm not picky. I'll take whoever it hooks. So, what do you say, Karen--a little champagne, a little moonlight, the ballroom at the Ritz?" Foggy breezes, completely recovered from his earlier alarm. Matt starts mentally filling out the paperwork for workplace harassment even though he's not totally sure which one of them he's putting in the defendant box.

"I'm washing my hair," Karen says, not missing a beat, "so you're really going to try and dodge me on the other thing?"

"Can't dodge what ain't been thrown," Foggy says, sounding delighted with his turn of phrase.

"Come on, Foggy, do you think I haven't noticed? The new clothes, the Eau de Man-bait?"

"Ugh, _shut up_ , Matt can probably hear you."

"Really can," Matt mutters.

"Now, why on earth would _Matt_ care about you smelling like you're trawling for dates at the dock?" Karen asks, dripping innocence.

"How dare you, I'll have you know this is Hermès. It's French!" Foggy huffs.

"Hermès? Really?" Matt palms his forehead at the neat derailment of Karen's question.

"What, I can be classy," Foggy protests.

Karen snorts a little snicker, the one that Matt hears whenever she's being fond towards them. "You're one of the good ones, Foggy, and you deserve to catch whoever you're aiming for," she whispers.

Foggy doesn't say anything--what could he say, when he knows Matt's listening?

For years now, Matt's kept a little pilot light in burning in his chest for his best friend. Sometimes it moulders down to almost nothing, but no matter what, it can't be snuffed. Matt thought it would die for good once Foggy learned about his secrets, but instead of starving, it flared. It grew. It demanded fuel, and Matt started to want Foggy with the devouring greed of a bonfire.

Foggy waking him with a kiss. Foggy holding his hand when they're old. Foggy arguing in court. Foggy bottle feeding his infant daughter. Foggy smelling of snow. Foggy coming on Matt's belly, his legs locked around Matt's waist and his back hiked up against the refrigerator. Foggy calling him honey. Foggy in the boxing ring. Foggy sitting with him in church. Foggy learning to flip a knife. Foggy scratching his nails down Matt's spine. Foggy wrapped up in Matt's arms, in Matt's bedsheets, swearing that everything's ok, I'm going to stay here with you, Matt, I promise.

But Matt has resolved never to let him, because staying with Matt would be the worst thing Foggy could do.

Still, late at night, Matt lays in bed and curls himself around the possibility that it could all be for him--the scarf, the shoes, the scents.

Foggy's always been beautiful. Not just in the abstract, pure-of-heart way that people think a blind man understands beauty, but physically beautiful. The texture of his skin. The breadth of his shoulders. The gentleness in his hands.

But recently, he's been more than just beautiful. He's startlingly lovely, and startlingly attention grabbing. Pulse raising. _Inviting_. Matt's been a fighter his entire life--he doesn't know how else to be--but in this, he wants to give in.

The next day, Foggy arrives at work naked, olfactorily speaking, and Matt is horrified. He puts on hangdog faces until he gets a hug, and he inhales deeply against Foggy's neck. Nothing but his natural scent.

Matt slinks into his office and reminds himself that resolve is not always easy to swallow. He says nothing.

***

"Hey, are you ok?"

Late in the afternoon, Foggy perches on the edge of Matt's desk, so close that when Matt reaches for his coffee cup, three times out of five he bumps into Foggy's hip. Foggy doesn't call him on the fact that avoiding collisions should be well within Matt's abilities.

"I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"You seem down."

"I'm fine." Foggy makes the noise he makes when he doesn't believe a word that comes out of Matt's mouth, and Matt offers up the first truth he can think of. "You smell nice today."

Whoops, Matt thinks, but Foggy just snorts.

"On the day that I'm not wearing cologne, you think I smell nice."

Matt clears his throat and applies himself to damage control. "They were all nice colognes. But now you just smell like you, and that's nice. As well."

"Just nice? If the commercials are true, they should have made you want to undress me and all the clothing would fall from my body in slow motion."

Matt is really thankful he wasn't drinking coffee in that moment, because for all his sins he doesn't deserve to be choked to death by a beverage.

"I'm--I'm. What the hell?"

Foggy waves a hand. "Sorry, that was a sighted person thing. Perfume commercials are all weird and slow, and they never actually tell you what the perfume smells like, just images of how it's supposed to make you feel."

"And they're supposed to make you feel like taking your clothes off?" This is safe. Jokes and banter and not imagining slowly slipping Foggy's shirt off his shoulders and tracing the path with his lips.

"This is what they tell me. I haven't been hurting you, have I? I figured if you hated them you'd say something."

"Some were a bit--" Matt wiggles his hand, "but most weren't. Did you pick one?"

"Pick one what?"

"Weren't you trying them out to pick a favourite?"

Sometimes, when Foggy grins really wide, Matt can hear his lips sliding over his teeth. "Yeah, I guess I was, in a way. Did you like any?"

"One or two." He rubs a knuckle over the Foggy's knee, distractedly.

"Come over tonight. I have this special one, a bit left-field, and I want your opinion."

"I'm busy tonight."

Karen's still on the other side of the door, so Foggy bends his head to whisper, "busy or Daredevil busy?" Matt grimaces, which he guesses is enough of an answer, because Foggy continues, "come by after."

"It'll be late."

"It's the weekend. We can sleep in."

Matt brain goes completely blank. Three blocks away, a pigeon coos.

"Um," he says, tolerably evenly. He would be impressed with Foggy if his gut wasn't swirling with the sensation that they're about to step off a cliff.

"You, me, and Cleon Jones at bat. We haven't listened to a game in weeks."

Foggy's walking them both back from the edge, and Matt should let him. But with his voice so inviting and the taste of his breath on Matt's lips, none of the reasons for restraint is as convincing as the Dolby surround MORE that's reverberating in Matt's head.

"I don't know, it seems a hassle to come over just to sniff your neck, Foggy," Matt says, throwing the proverbial rock off the cliff to test the height of the plummet.

"Who said it I was going to wear it for you? I was just going to hand you the bottle." Smirky. Challenging. Intolerable.

"Then I'll be able to tell you what's in it, down to the molecule. But I won't be able to tell you if it'll make someone want to take your clothes off in slow motion." He gives Foggy the grin that once made a friend of theirs introduce him as "Matt Murdock, who flirts like a bear trap."

Foggy's breath hitches, and Matt holds his.

"You make it sound like a dangerous thing to do, being around something so intoxicating."

"It can be."

"But you like danger."

"It seems to find me."

"And sometimes you seek it out."

Good Christ, he's been practicing, Matt thinks. "And sometimes I seek it out," he agrees, pressing up on his hands, leaning closer.

Foggy smooths back Matt's hair. "I don't want to be a danger to you."

"No, you only want nice things for me," Matt sighs.

"That's right."

"Like special colognes. And clean pillows."

"You want to make friends with my pillow?"

"I think we're already more than friends."

"Oh my god, what did you two do while I was sleeping?"

"A gentleman doesn't cuddle and tell." Matt's heart flutters like a baseball card in the spokes of a bicycle wheel as Foggy's fingers slip through his hair, tracing the earpiece of his glasses.

"Should I be jealous?"

"No, it was only because the smell reminded me of you," Matt hears himself say, distracted by Foggy's firm touch behind his ear. Even before his brain can send a panic signal into the rest of his body, Foggy's chuckling--dark and hot as coffee, black.

"I'll leave my old pillow case on when you come over tonight."

"Yeah? Will you let me touch your scarf again too?" Matt asks. Preferably while it's around your neck, he adds silently,

"I knew you liked that scarf."

"Almost more than I like you."

"I get that. Compared to it, I must feel like sandpaper."

"You've never given me the chance to find out." He draws his finger down Foggy's shirt, and the finely textured weave zings under his nail. He's had dreams about this body, naked under his hands, and sandpaper isn't the first comparison that comes to mind.

Foggy's hand covers Matt's, holding it against his chest. "You never asked for one."

"I never knew you wanted me to." He's close enough to kiss, and his hair is tickling Matt's forehead. "What's happening here, Foggy?"

"I'm not a thousand percent sure, but I want to find out. With you." Foggy's voice is deliberate, like it's handing down an unshakeable truth.

There's always been a quiet core of certainty in Foggy that Matt's damn sure no one ever appreciates properly. Karen comes the closest. Matt's not even in the running, because most of the time he struggles to hear Foggy's calm assertiveness over his own catastrophic, unbiddable impulses.

"Come over tonight," Foggy says.

Now he hears it, and there's only one way to answer. "Yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be noted that the word "cologne" describes a strength of fragrance (2-5% concentration) as well as a particular fragrance profile (citruses and certain herbs). However, it has come to mean fragrances designed for/worn by men, even if those fragrances have higher concentrations (e.g. eau de parfum) or if they don't adhere to the citrus and herb profile. 
> 
> What Foggy actually wears are eaux de toilette. But you try working that into a descriptive sentence in Matt's head.


	5. Chapter 5

That evening, Foggy cleans. The kitchen, the bathroom, the carpet, the trash cans, himself, the fridge, the bed sheets, and then, in an aroused and sweaty kind of nervousness, himself again.

He wanders around the apartment in a towel, reluctant to touch or sit on any clean surface because his butt print probably lights up for Matt like a bloodstain under blacklight and he wants everything to be nice for once. No bad smells. No unpleasant textures, no human grime getting in the way. Nothing he has to grit his teeth through or try to ignore. Just clean, cool, purity--all for Matt.

He props his chin on top of his dresser and looks at his last vial of cologne, nestled in a padded box like an engagement ring. The liquid is dark amber and syrupy, and so precious that it's sold by the millilitre. He uses the plastic cap to apply a drop on his throat, and because he saw Marci do this once, behind his knee.

He sits down to read for about a third of a second before he's up and pacing again, tugging at his collar, checking for stains under his arms.

A knock on the door startles him out of his spiral.

He opens it. "I thought you might use the window."

"Wasn't really dressed for it." Matt gestures at his clothing--jeans and a soft looking black shirt, open at the throat. His glasses are already in his breast pocket and his hair is an almost-artful mess. Foggy did actually expect Matt to drop by "after patrol", which meant him still in the Daredevil suit and sliding down the fire escape, but it looks like he knocked off early to change.

"Come in. You want a drink?"

"If you're having one." Foggy uncaps two beers and hands one to Matt as he sprawls on the sofa.

"Don't you want to come a little closer?" Matt purrs.

"Patience is a virtue," Foggy says calmly, sitting opposite him on the coffee table.

"So is drive," Matt counters, lifting the bottle to his lips with a smirk. He takes a long swallow of beer, and Foggy rakes his eyes over Matt's throat because he can't rake his teeth.

"See something you like?" Matt practically licks the words from his whiskers.

"Oh yes," Foggy pours all his feeling--years of cut-away glances, hands shoved into pockets, and bitten tongues-- into his words, and his voice comes out hot, "I like everything I see."

"Maybe you'll like what you feel, too."

"Are you asking me to touch you, Matt?" Foggy asks, and Matt's eyes widen fractionally. That's right, Foggy thinks. You're in my house now, and I went to school with the best.

"I think you're the one who's doing the asking, Foggy," Matt says, leaning forward and bracketing Foggy's ankles with his own, "Your body, it's practically shouting." 

He's right, of course. Foggy's blood started rushing south the second he opened the door to reveal Matt's wide open collar and uncovered eyes. He's seen Matt wearing less clothing but he's not sure he's ever seen him that naked, standing in Foggy's doorway like a present waiting to be unwrapped.

For a long moment, Foggy doesn’t say anything, watching Matt's lips curl seductively, clearly thinking he's won. Silently, Foggy widens his stance, using his ankles to spread Matt’s legs. 

"So's yours."

Matt's throat bobs, but he lets Foggy hold him open, leans back so that the tent in his trousers is obvious under Foggy's gaze. He raises his chin, which anyone else would read as defiance. And even though Foggy's never seen this particular move, he knows with instinct borne of familiarity that this is Matt literally showing his throat.

But Foggy Nelson's best friend doesn't know the meaning of surrender, which means--ha. Bait in the trap. Come and get me.

"You think you're the absolute best, don't you? The second coming of Valentino. You just have to hold still while the world throws itself at you."

He plucks the beer from Matt's hand and trails a finger up that long, smooth throat to rest under the point of his chin. "Well, let me tell you what it takes to get a boy like you to come closer."

Gently, like he's balancing a soap bubble, Foggy pulls back his hand.

Matt follows like he's on hydraulics.

"The colognes. Those shoes. That scarf," Matt says, licking his lips, "they were for me, weren't they? You wanted my attention. You wanted me to hear you, and smell you, and _feel_ you." Foggy presses a smile onto Matt's face with his canines, and Matt gasps. "You wanted me to come closer."

"You rubbed your tiny black underwear-clad ass all over my apartment and it practically concussed me. I had to get my own back."

"You liked it."

"Wrong. I _loved_ it."

"Is that when you decided to seduce me?" Foggy's in love with the shape of Matt's smile when it's next to his own. New favourite.

"Give or take."

"You could have said something, instead of going to all this effort. I would have-- I used to dream that maybe someday--" Matt gulps a breath."You've always had my attention, Foggy. Sometimes you're all I can sense. I know that you think that everything hurts me, or disgusts me, but there are things that are so beautiful I can't describe them because there aren't words. _You're_ beautiful to me, Foggy. Every texture, every taste, every tiny detail."

Matt sighs. "I hated that I couldn't tell you about my senses, and then you were so uncomfortable about it. I never expected that you'd--that you'd _invite_ me to use them."

"You've had me at a disadvantage for years," Foggy strokes his cheek to take away the sting,"and I still think you could've trusted me enough to tell me. But you've been honest about how you live with your senses, and I'm starting to get it. They're a part of you. So I have to at least try to love them."

Matt's eyelashes brush the tips of Foggy's fingers. His face is shyly delighted.

"I swear, Foggy, all you had to do was ask."

"I was asking. I just wasn't using words."

That makes Matt's face go stunned, and then Foggy's on his back on the sofa with Matt's mouth hard on his.

"So perfect, Foggy," Matt says between frantic kisses, "how are you just so--"

Suddenly his arms go tight around Foggy's waist, the point of his nose dug in hard against the delicate skin of Foggy's neck.

"Is this it? Your special cologne? What is--you smell like--" The words disappear into a series of enormous, greedy inhales.

"Like what, Matt? Come on, show me what you can do."

"Like you've been making love in an garden. Lavender and sandalwood. Jasmine, cedar, something like oranges but bitterer. Steam. Musk. A perfect red rose. And you, Foggy. You make it come alive."

"Do you like it?"

"Yeah." He sinks his face under Foggy's jaw and inhales again. "It's fizzy."

"Fizzy?" Foggy laughs.

"It gives off sparks. It doesn't just sit there, it smells like it could get up and move, like it's natural."

"It's vintage, from the thirties. From before they used artificial ingredients. I thought it might be a treat for you."

"It's sublime. But I'd rather have you without it than someone else drenched in it."

"Sweet talker." He pulls Matt down for another kiss, but Matt keeps his elbows locked.

"I'm serious. You don't have to dress up for me. You, your body, the way you are naturally. That's what I want."

Foggy presses Matt's fingers to the buttons of his shirt. "Then that's what you get."

***

Matt considers ripping it open, but he's recently developed a new reverence for Foggy's wardrobe, and he slides the buttons through their holes delicately.

"Not sandpaper," he teases.

"Oh god, you jerk," Foggy laughs and Matt nips at the skin he reveals. "Matt, please."

"You said I get you," Matt licks around an adorable belly button, "all of you."

"So I just get to lie here while you tongue me all over?"

"You have objections?"

"Strangely, none," Foggy admits. His soft skin radiates heat and arousal--taste and touch combined in Matt's mouth.

Matt kisses up his chest and down his arms. Sucks on his fingers, scrapes his teeth along his collarbone. Bites him on the round of his belly, making the skin bloom with heat. And Foggy, true to word, hangs onto the sofa but doesn't try to hurry him or buck him off. He just pants and pleads and trembles so sweetly that Matt feels it through his lips all the way down his throat.

When Matt's chin bumps into Foggy's belt, he grins wickedly and tugs the leather through the buckle with his teeth.

"Sweet Jesus," Foggy breathes, and his cock jerks under the zipper. Matt ignores it in favour of swirling his tongue over his hipbone. When he pulls down Foggy's jeans, it releases a cloud of salt, and aroused sweat, and roses. He hikes Foggy's knee over his shoulder and sniffs it loudly.

"Oh my god," Foggy says, covering his face. "Ok, you found it, I put perfume behind my knee."

Matt growls playfully and licks into the hollow, and Foggy shouts. It's bitter. Cologne smells better than it tastes, but he laps at the sensitive skin because it makes Foggy vibrate.

"Stop kicking," he scolds.

"Can't help it," Foggy says, a bit strangled sounding from being bent almost in half, "it feels weird."

"Bad weird?"

"Didn't know my dick was connected to the back of my knee weird."

Well, Matt just has to give the back of Foggy's knee one more deep tongue kiss before wrapping his leg more comfortably around his waist.

"You feel incredible. I can't get enough of you."

"I'm not going anywhere," Foggy says, and Matt hears the truth of it.

"What do you want, Foggy? Tell me."

"World peace, to win cases, and to wake up every day with your hair in my face."

Matt's eyes prickle. On his best day he still confuses the intensity of his emotions for being right, and what scares him the most about a life with Foggy isn't all the ways he knows he could hurt him. It's all the things Matt can't imagine. The injuries that'll take both of them by surprise.

"I'm not easy to love," Matt chokes.

"I know," Foggy says, kissing the corner of his eye, "but that hasn't stopped me these last few years." Matt starts to object, but he gets hushed. "You've let me in on a lot of things lately, and I know it's taken effort. All that effort was for me. Not for anyone else, not for justice in Hell's Kitchen. For me, because I asked. You're not as unloveable as you think."

I want to be the man he believes I am, Matt thinks. Maybe today I start trying to be.

Matt kisses him shakily, clumsy with humility and thankfulness, but Foggy holds Matt's head still and gentles the pace, stroking his hair.

"So have you been tongued thoroughly, or have I missed a spot?" There's an erection digging insistently into Matt's belly, but he keeps his expression innocent and his own hard-on aloof.

"I feel pretty worked over, but I'm not the one with super senses," Foggy says, his hands sneaking up the back of Matt's shirt. "Why don't we go to the bedroom and you can--ah! Double check." Matt grins with Foggy's nipple between his teeth.

"I like the way you think," says Matt, and scrambles up, unbuckling his belt and walking away.

"Hey, wait for--"

Matt's cuts him off by throwing his shirt in his face.

By the time Foggy joins him in the bedroom, Matt is lounging against the headboard with his ankles crossed. His clothing sits in a heap on the chair.

"Did you stop to think," Foggy says, kneeling on the bed, "that I might have enjoyed stripping you down to these little black undies that tortured me all through law school?"

"Next time," Matt whispers, and pulls Foggy astride him, "I've got plans."

"What kind of--" Foggy starts, but Matt plunges his hand into Foggy's boxers and he shuts up with a gurgle.

"These kind of."

There's a throbbing pulse at the base of Foggy's cock, and feeling it thunder against against his palm makes Matt instantly, shockingly hungry to feel it from the inside. Maybe in the morning. He works Foggy to the brink, until his breathy encouragements become desperate noises.

"Tell me how it feels," Foggy says, and isn't that something Matt's supposed to ask? There's no overestimating him, it seems, that he can go from hating the very idea of Matt's senses, to empathizing with all the downsides of sensitivity, to showering Matt with the upsides, to offering up his own body be experienced--and still want to know more.

No one, living or dead, has ever gone to the trouble of changing they way they think for Matt, and that realization punches him in the head and the heart simultaneously.

"Velvet," murmurs Matt, "and iron, and pumping blood, and slick. Foggy, you're so gorgeous, I love you. God, I love you so much."

Foggy whines high in his throat and clutches at Matt's shoulders. "Love you," he says, nearly incoherent, "Matt, oh fuck, Matty, love you too."

Panting open-mouthed against Foggy's hot, perfumed throat, with Foggy's unstoppable heartbeat within the circle of his fingers, Matt feels more human than he's ever felt before.

"Can you come for me, Foggy? Please, honey," Matt begs, yanking Foggy's underwear down and nearly splitting them in his haste. He swirls his fingers over the leaking head of Foggy's cock and savours the full-body shiver that says he's close. Matt's so turned on his own cock aches between his legs, but at the same time it's distant and unimportant, eclipsed by the sensory orgy of Foggy's body.

"No, want to--" Foggy inhales hard through his nose, "with you, Matt."

"We will, later. I want to hear you now. Want to listen to your body when it sings." He twists his wrist and Foggy cries out. "Just like that, honey. Don't hold back, let me hear you."

"Oh fuck, you're going to be the death of me." Foggy grips the headboard and his hair tumbles into Matt's face. Silky strands brush over his open mouth.

"You're so close, I can feel it." He can hardly get the words out, he's drowning in the sweep of Foggy's hair, the drumbeat of his pulse, the sweat of his inner thighs making Matt's skin slippery.

Foggy comes gasping into Matt's neck, groaning out beautiful words like "love," and "stay." He clings and shivers as Matt strokes him through the last of his orgasm and beyond.

"Gah, stop, enough," he says, wincing and giggling at the same time. He leans down for a kiss but Matt just smirks and lies back, licking his sticky fingers.

"You're such a temptation," Foggy says, sounding completely wrecked.

Matt pulls his thumb out of his mouth with a pop. "What would _you_ know about temptation?" Matt crowds Foggy until he falls over with a squeak and crawls between his splayed legs. "For months, everything about you has been an absolute trial. Your clothes, your scent, everything. Every time I went near you, all I could hear was 'touch me, Matt'."

"Then why don't you?"

Matt grins down at him. "What, again already?"

"Probably not, but don't let that stop you." Foggy plants his feet and fucks _up_ , and Matt's eyes roll back in his head. "Just like that," he urges, his hips moving steadily, "come on, Matty, whip off those panties for me."

"They're not panties," Matt whines, because it's difficult to be stern and moan one's head off at the same time, "they're a perfectly masculine style of underwear."

"I'll debate with you later, just lose 'em!" Foggy makes his case with teeth against Matt's jaw and a knee thrust between his legs. Matt kicks off the underwear and lets Foggy grind on him in an unstoppable rhythm.

"Feels good?" Foggy asks.

Matt's "yes" is pretty much all groan. Foggy's hips move against him like they're oiled--smooth and dominating--making Matt ride his thigh like a dream.

"Oh god," Matt says, his head hanging, "Foggy--gonna." He's got Foggy's tongue in his mouth and Foggy's grip on his ass, and then Foggy says, "love you," directly into his ear, and Matt can only make loud, overwhelmed _uh-uh-uh_ sounds as he stripes Foggy's belly with come.

"Didn't mean to go off so quick," he mumbles, collapsing onto Foggy's chest.

"I choose to take it as a compliment," Foggy says, kissing his hair. 

Cuddled against Foggy, Matt's in heaven. Foggy's heartbeat pounds steadily under his ear, there's acres of soft, warm skin to touch, and Foggy's arms are wrapped around him, blocking out the world.

"Holy crap, it's almost five in the morning," he tells Matt, drowsily.

Matt doesn't open his eyes. "Then pull the blanket over and we can sleep."

"I need a shower."

"Tomorrow, Foggy. I'm not moving."

Foggy swabs his stomach with Matt's shirt. "I can't believe I dried my sheets on a line for you."

"Me neither," Matt says, softly, shyly, "but here's an idea. Silk sheets."

"You are such a little hedonist, it's astonishing." Matt tries to smirk, but he just probably looks like he's been rode hard and put away wet. "You're going to fill my entire life with problems, aren't you?" Foggy muses, and his voice is brimming over with affection.

Matt lifts his head and kisses a smile onto Foggy's face. "Too late. You said you love me. You can't take it back."

Foggy's sigh is pure forbearance. "I suppose you're right," he says warmly, "I guess I'm stuck with you."


	6. Chapter 6

Foggy wakes up with Matt’s hair up his nose, his beleaguered sigh rustling it like a breeze through a field of wheat. "Well, I suppose I did ask for this pretty specifically," he says gruffly.

Matt huffs sleepily and cuddles closer. It's a contented, satisfied sound, and Foggy presses his lips to the back of Matt's neck. "Morning, sunshine."

"Mmm," Matt sighs, "morning."

A glance at the clock proves them both to be liars. It's almost one in the afternoon. But he's got Matt in his arms, naked and warm and sweet as anything, so frankly, the whole world can just take a number.

Foggy pushes up on one elbow and noses the bone behind Matt's ear. "So here's what I'm thinking. Some coffee, some food. We go to yours and get your silk sheets," Matt gives a snort, but it's a pleased one, "and then we come right back here and kiss some more."

"I like your plan," Matt's smile is Foggy's new favourite, but he ruins it by yawning hugely, "maybe a nap first."

Foggy nips Matt's earlobe. "Lazy," he murmurs.

"I'm worn out from fighting evil. And you kept me awake for _hours_."

"Kept you! I wasn't just twiddling my thumbs all evening, you know. I cleaned the whole apartment." Foggy strokes his fingers over Matt's sculpted biceps, and it makes Matt press his hips backwards.

"That's _so_ much more work than chasing muggers."

"More back-of-the-fridge moldy, at least," Foggy concedes, and kisses Matt's jaw softly before pulling away, "I'll start the coffee, but you better be upright by the time I'm out of the shower."

Matt's hand shoots out and catches his arm.

"No, come back. Don't shower."

"Matt, I stink!"

"No, you don't."

"Don't be dumb. Even I can smell me. You must be choking on it."

Matt's eyes narrow, and then Foggy's staring up at the ceiling with his wrists pinned to the bed. Glaring to the best of his ability, Matt lowers his head and inhales hard in Foggy's armpit, and it's only his grip that keeps Foggy from elbowing him.

"Foggy, you know what I can smell right now?"

"What?"

"Kitchen cleaner, jasmine from your cologne, and your sweat," Foggy shuts his eyes, slightly ashamed, but Matt continues, "but also _my_ sweat, because you spooned me like an octopus, and my saliva, from when I licked your nipples. And down here," Matt wriggles down Foggy's body and licks his belly, just at the edge of his pubic hair, "you smell like my come. Trust me, I like it. A lot."

Matt crawls back up and kisses him deeply, morning breath be damned. "We had sex, Foggy. There's no shame in smelling like it."

"I know. I was there." Matt just raises an eyebrow at him. He sighs. "The world stinks for you, Matt, and I add to it."

"Yeah, it does, and no, you don't. Or if you do, then I do too. Smells help me know the world, Foggy, even if they're overwhelming sometimes. I don't want you to think I need everything sterilized in order to be happy."

"I just want you to have things that're nice. Even if that's a scrubbed apartment. Or a scrubbed lover."

Matt grins at his old fashioned language, but there's no better word for the way Foggy's body and soul wants to curl itself around him and keep him safe. "If my lover smells less than factory-fresh, then it's because I've been loving him all night," Matt says, his voice dropping into the suggestive register.

Foggy's heart must sound unconvinced, because Matt sighs. "Foggy, you might as well say the world is too full of faces so you should wear a bag over your head."

"That makes no sense."

Matt makes a face that says, "well, there you go."

"But isn't it gross?"

"I'm not saying you won't need a shower eventually, but right now you smell fine. Hot. Satisfied. Like--" Matt bites his lip.

"Like what?"

"Like you might be mine."

Foggy kisses that uncertain mouth, because he just might be. "Alright, so I've got more to learn about you. I'm still going to shower."

Matt pouts.

"Why don't you join me?"

***

In the shower, Foggy pins Matt's wrists over his head with one hand and jerks him off with the other, so teasingly that his head rattles against the tile as he shakes and pleads.

"Begging. I like that," Foggy says, crazily aroused by the fact that Matt's allowing himself to be held down. Matt just whimpers.

Matt's still panting hard when he folds to his knees and sucks Foggy into his mouth. It's sloppy and rough and noisy on Matt's part, and Foggy almost dies when Matt takes his hands and puts them on the back of his neck.

"Matt, have you done that before?" Foggy asks, tipping Matt's head back and rubbing a thumb along his throat.

"Not really," Matt's grin is the devil's own, "but let's go anyways." Foggy groans, and it feels like it comes from his toes. Matt takes Foggy's cock between his lips.

And just stays there.

Foggy stares at him, hands tight on his neck, unmoving.

"Foggy."

"Uh huh."

"Foggy."

"That's me."

"Foggy, you're needed for this part," Matt says waspishly.

"Well, forgive me if I don't want to choke you to death our first time out."

Matt rolls his eyes. "Then don't! Shove your cock down my throat, but carefully."

"Carefully."

"Yeah, carefully."

Nettled, Foggy works just the head of his cock in Matt's mouth, refusing to go any deeper than the swell of his tongue, but he grabs Matt's jaw and pulls on his hair so he doesn't notice he's not getting what he wants.

"So good, Matt," Foggy groans, and means it, "so pretty." He nudges against the back of Matt's throat accidentally, and moans. Matt nods and pulls at his hips.

Foggy pushes a little deeper, just enough to make Matt's cheeks flush. It's tight and hot and perfect, and it doesn't take him more than a few seconds before he's pulling out and shooting all over Matt's collarbone, his cries drowning out the sound of the water.

"You ok?" Foggy asks later, propping Matt against the bathroom counter and drying him off.

"A+, would deepthroat again," Matt says, a little hoarsely. He's grinning.

***

When they're finally dressed, caffeinated, and ready to walk to Matt's apartment, the sky's already beginning to darken. Foggy tugs on his gloves, and Matt lifts his head from tying his shoes.

"Wait. New leather gloves."

Foggy looks at his hands. "Yes."

Matt beckons from the couch. "Did these have a part in your seduction plan too?" he asks, his nose buried in Foggy's palms.

"To wear them outside and stay warm?" Foggy says. Matt smirks and gently pinches the leather between his teeth. "Yeah, ok, we can talk about that later," he admits, dragging his finger over Matt's lip.

"Promise?"

Foggy bends at the waist to kiss him, and tastes leather on his tongue.

On the street, Matt cleaves to Foggy's side. He cuddles so close that their steps tangle and it's only his superhero nimbleness that keeps them from going down in a pile of elbows and knees.

Matt's bundled up like a burrito, wearing one of Foggy's sweaters and his coat buttoned up high. But the beautiful idiot clearly hadn't been thinking with the head that goes under hats when he'd gotten dressed last night, because he's naked from the neck up and the wrist down. Foggy offers to turn back for a scarf or something, but Matt seems intent on getting his body heat straight from the source.

"Matty, honey, quit goofing around and just hold my hand. They'll get the message," Foggy says, the third time approaching footsteps make Matt wrap himself all over Foggy possessively.

Matt stops walking, and Foggy nearly does a 180 degree spin around his bicep.

"What did you call me?"

"Matty?"

"You said honey."

"Uh, possibly?"

Matt gathers him close, arms wound low around Foggy's waist. "Honey," he whispers, and kisses Foggy again and again--soft presses of lips, warm puffs of breath. "You called me honey."

He sounds delighted and a bit unbelieving, and definitely, _definitely_ this smile is Foggy's favourite.

"It's going to take us an hour to get to your place instead of ten minutes if you insist on kissing me every six steps," Foggy says, but he holds still for Matt to lick into his mouth and warm his hands in his back pockets.

"Then I get to kiss you for an hour. Where's the downside?"

"You have to do it on the sidewalk instead of a nice warm apartment. And we have to keep our pants on."

Matt tilts his head, and starts towing Foggy down the street.

"Wait, wait. Don't run off." Foggy unwinds his scarf-- _the_ scarf--and drapes it around Matt's neck. Matt's eyelids flutter as he wraps the tails around and knots them in the front.

"There you go," he says, threading his fingers through Matt's and kissing his soft, wind-chilled mouth, "feels good?"

Matt's hand is freezing on Foggy's chin, but he lets Matt tip his face up anyway.

"Yeah, Foggy," he says, and his smile outshines the lights of Ninth Avenue. "Feels good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deleted scenes found [here](http://werelibrarian.tumblr.com/post/151136248201/deleted-scenes-from-good-old-fashioned-lover-boy)

**Author's Note:**

> Occasionally I'm interesting on [Tumblr](http://www.werelibrarian.tumblr.com)


End file.
